


The Mask, the Mirror, and the Mai Tai

by lightspire



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Mirrors, PWP, Romance, plot-what plot, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2729486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightspire/pseuds/lightspire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with the Doctor, but he’s not telling. Clara is determined to do whatever it takes to find out what it is. Also: What happens when philosophy and alien cocktails collide?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU-ish because the final café scene from Death in Heaven never happened. Plus, you know, smut (eventually).
> 
> A Mai Tai is a Hawaiian-inspired cocktail, popular in the 1950s and 60s. Recipes vary, but usually include a mix of rum, syrups, and citrus juices, served with a garnish of fruit. The name comes from the Polynesian phrase "Maita'i roa ae!" which translates to “Out of this world!”

The Doctor paced the floor of Clara’s bedroom, his body tense, like a wolf trapped in a cage. Every few seconds he stopped, picked up a random object, fiddled with it, and put it back down again.

“Why do you have a dish just for soap?” He examined the white ceramic saucer and sniffed it. It smelled of jasmine. “Huh.”

Clara stood facing her dressing table, the one with the three mirrors, and tried to concentrate on applying her mascara. Between strokes on her lashes, she watched him in the triple reflection as he prowled around the room behind her. She’d caught him looking at her when he thought she couldn’t see, but every time she’d tried to make eye contact during those moments, he’d looked away as though annoyed with her.

“It’s a soap dish. That’s what it does,” she replied.

“You humans are a funny lot.” He set the dish down.

“Thanks.”

Having run out of things to fidget with, the Doctor let out a bored sigh, leaned against the TARDIS, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. The bright red lining of his jacket showed, complementing the crisp black and white polka-dot shirt that he wore underneath. The first time he’d worn this shirt Clara had beamed at him, delighted, and said, “Nice polka-dots. You should wear those more often.” He had put it on again especially for her.

“A friend of mine once told me,” the Doctor said, watching her paint eyeliner into a cat’s-eye shape on her lids, “that the eye is the window to the soul.”

“Shush. I’m trying to focus,” she commanded. He shushed.

Her makeup applied, Clara picked up a brush and smoothed her hair with it. She flipped her locks in front of her shoulders, then back again, trying to find the most pleasing arrangement.

He watched her play with her hair, mesmerized by the way the ends settled in fluffy layers around her shoulders, like the fur of some exotic animal. He noticed how some of the strands were backlit by the golden light of the setting sun that shone through her bedroom window, forming a halo around her head. For an instant he wondered if her hair was still as soft as he remembered, and his fingers twitched involuntarily with longing.

 _Don’t even think about it_ , he warned himself, and shoved the idea aside. He’d never again know the sensation of her silken hair sliding through his fingers – not in this body anyway. _And that’s as it should be_ , his inner voice chided him, and shame flickered across his face.

“Your hair looks fine,” he told her.

“Yeah, it does,” she said, smiling at her own reflection.

 When he had been that other bloke – the hugger with the big chin and ridiculous bow tie – he’d used any excuse to caress those shiny brown locks as often as possible…but not anymore. He wasn’t her boyfriend; he was just a selfish, grumpy, old, alien idiot. The Doctor sighed again, feeling sorry for himself.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” he asked. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

“Last time I checked, nether were you.”

Well, it was true. Neither he nor Clara was getting any younger, and he knew it would soon be time for someone else – someone human – to run their fingers through her hair, to love her … to give the normal, happy life she deserved. The life he could never offer her. This inescapable fact haunted him frequently now, disturbing his thoughts by day and invading his dreams at night.

The moment was coming that he’d have to give her up.

 _But not today_. His throat tightened and he squeezed his hands into fists inside his pockets. The inner voice mocked him. _You’re worse than a toddler who won’t share his toys._ The Doctor wanted to punch that inner voice, even though it was right. The thought made him even angrier with himself.

“What friend?” Clara asked, interrupting the Doctor’s brooding.

“Huh?” He’d completely forgotten what they were talking about.

“Earth to Doctor, hello.” She wrinkled her forehead and turned to look at him. “You were telling me how this friend of yours said something about eyes and windows? I just asked you which friend it was.”

“Oh! Yes,” he nodded, relieved to have something else to think about. “Fellow by the name of Leonardo da Vinci. You may have heard of him.”

“Name dropper,” she rolled her eyes. “Besides, I thought it was Shakespeare who said that.”

“Ha. Where do you think Shakespeare got the idea from?” He grinned, and added, “Those two got on like a house on fire.”

“What, seriously? When was this?” The Doctor opened his mouth to speak but she raised a finger and stopped him before he could answer. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It was at one of your band rehearsals, right? Like, Will dropped some rhymes while Leonardo played drums?” She laughed at the idea.

“Leo played the lyre that day, actually.” He smiled back at her, amused by her astonished expression. “But his real gift was singing. Voice like a nightingale. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“You’re impossible, Doctor.” She shook her head and shot him an exasperated smile. “But you knew that.” She turned back to the mirror and adjusted the collar of her white blouse.

 _I am not impossible_ , he thought, feeling slightly insulted, _just highly unlikely_.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” he huffed. _My impossible girl_. But she wasn’t a girl; she was a woman, and the only thing impossible about this woman was the idea of her being his, forever…. _Shut up, Doctor._ _Shut up, shut up, shut up_. He banished the thought to a dark closet in the farthest corner of his mind and locked the door. Again.

Clara wrapped a black silk tie around her neck -- the same one from their date on Karabraxos -- and tied it into a loose knot. The ends hung down between her breasts, and the Doctor followed the line of her tie with his eyes, to where it ended just above her waist. His gaze drifted further downward; he traced the curve of her short red skirt where it hugged her hips, and down her legs (she wore black tights, as usual – as usual? When had he begun to notice that?), to her high-heeled boots, which were black leather, like his own.

Realizing what he was doing, he stopped himself, and turned to examine the London skyline out her window. He forced his mind to think about something else—anything else – like calculating pi to three hundred places, which he did. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. _Get a grip, Doctor_.

“Question,” he began, returning to his earlier train of thought in yet another attempt to distract himself. “If our eyes are the windows to the soul, do you think we can see our own souls when we look into mirrors?” he asked, pointing to Clara’s three-sided mirror. He paused thoughtfully for a second, before adding, “Is that why you have so many? Are you investigating the deep mysteries of the universe … or is it just because your face is so wide?”

Clara stopped primping and turned to glare at him, her lips pursed. “And exactly how am I supposed to answer that?”

The Doctor shrugged. “A Dalek looked into my soul once. You were there, remember? I didn’t much care for what it saw …” he gazed into the middle distance, lost in thought, then shuddered, trying to shake off the memory.

“Bundle of laughs, you are,” she said, observing him more carefully now. “Are you OK?”

He puffed his lips in derision. “Of course I’m OK. I’m always OK,” he lied.

“I can tell when you’re lying.” Clara walked over to face him and looked up into his blue-green eyes. “I’m really good at the whole lying thing, remember? Come on, out with it. What’s wrong?”

 _Everything_ , he thought.

“Nothing,” he said.

_I want you all to myself, all the time, and in ways that I can’t even admit to myself, and it’s not fair to you and it’s wrong -- and it’s tearing me up inside._

“Really. It’s fine,” he insisted, his expression a blank mask.

He changed the subject. “I’m thirsty. How about a trip to the fourth moon of Alpha-con 6? I hear there’s a Tiki bar there in the year 3427 that serves a drink called a Nuclear Mai Tai, and I’ve always wanted to try one. That is, if you don’t mind the constant earthquakes and the vulgar Easter Island statue copies,” he stroked his chin absently. “They never could get my profile just right….”

“Enough, Doctor.” Clara stepped even closer to him and put her right hand on his left arm. The contact crackled through him like an electric shock, as it always did when she touched him, and he immediately stifled a flinch. He knew that his involuntary reactions confused her and hurt her feelings, so he forced himself to relax. He looked down at her hand and back up to her face, but she didn’t let go.

“We’re not going anywhere…and I’m not letting you leave, either,” she said in her most authoritative tone of voice, “until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Clara. No. Not like this.” He clasped her hand in his own and removed it from his arm. “It’s not important.” The look in his eyes and the tenor of his voice brooked no argument, and she let her hand drop to her side.

Clara could tell that he really wasn’t going to budge this time, so she gave in. Her experience with teaching kids like Courtney Woods had taught her how to lose a battle in order to win a war.

Had she done something wrong? Knowing the Doctor, it could be anything, from something as small as her leaving her teacup on the console again to as big a problem as catching her in one lie too many. Or it might have nothing to do with her at all: he could have been concerned about alien invasions, working on a twelve-dimensional mathematical equation, or trying to remember where he’d put the round things…but…no. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t the usual trouble on his mind.

He was wrestling with something -- something to do with her. Not knowing what it was made her feel uncomfortably out of control. It drove her crazy. Somehow, she’d have to find a way to get the truth out of him.

She took a deep breath and put on a cheerful façade. “Alpha-con 6 it is, then. But you know what alcohol does to me. So you’re the designated driver, and you’re buying.”

She turned to enter the TARDIS, but the Doctor stopped her. “Wait a second.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small syringe. “Hold out your arm.”

Clara eyed it warily. “What’s that then?”

“Viro-stabilizer. Protects you from bad stuff we might encounter where we’re going. Trust me. Won’t hurt a bit.” He reached for her arm.

“Hmm. Well, all right then,” she said, and pushed up her sleeve. The Doctor jabbed her with the syringe. “Ouch!” she cried. “You said it wouldn’t hurt!”

He grinned wickedly at her. “I lied.”


	2. Chapter 2

They sat across from each other at a small bamboo table in the Tiki Tradewinds – which was, according to the sign that greeted them when they arrived, “The Most Authentic Tiki Bar in the Five Galaxies!” – and sipped their Nuclear Mai Tais.

Small groups of humans and aliens clustered at nearby tables, chattering in a hundred languages. Overhead, the ceiling was thatched with woven dried palm fronds, and stylized carved wooden masks hung from the walls. High-tech touch-screens embedded in each table clashed with the rustic furnishings, creating a surreal environment.

Even more surreal, to Clara’s mind at least, was the fact that the Tiki bar floated about a kilometer above the moon’s cracked and rocky surface. Massive banks of windows along one side of the building afforded a spectacular view of the fractured and constantly shifting ground below. One earthquake after another rumbled over the moon’s crust, making the skin of this little world churn and shift like a pot of boiling water.

Opposite the windows, a soaring greenhouse took up the other side of the bar. There, lush tropical plants including the oranges, limes, and pineapples used to make their drinks, flourished in the light of Alpha-con 6’s twin yellow suns. 

Mid-23rd century Earth neo-punk-Hawaiian music floated through the air, piped from invisible speakers. The Doctor cocked his head to one side, listening to the music.

“That sounds like The Calypso Dreamboys,” he said, scowling slightly. “Rubbish band.”

“So -- how are we in a floating Tiki bar again?” Clara asked.

“Anti grav thrusters, of course. Primitive, but effective.” He looked out the thick Perspex window that was right next to their table. “I guess that’s one way to get around the problem of all the moonquakes down there.”

“And what, exactly, makes this particular Mai Tai, ‘nuclear’”? She stared at it, suddenly wondering if it was actually safe to drink.

The Doctor looked around to make sure no one was listening, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “Well, it’s supposed to be a secret, but I won the recipe in a poker game on Vega half a dozen regenerations ago. Do you feel that little tingle on your tongue when you take a sip? That’s Delphon rum. Very slightly radioactive. It’s technically illegal to possess it, though, so I won’t begin to guess how they got ahold of it.”

“Should we be drinking it?” she asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“It’s perfectly compatible with your metabolism," he said, "and the viro-stabilizer in your bloodstream will take care of the radiation and any residual alcohol – if you don’t drink too much of it, that is. And it shouldn’t affect me at all.”

The trip had cheered the Doctor somewhat, but he still shifted uneasily in his chair and toyed with the buttons on his jacket, his facial expressions alternating between delight in his surroundings and flashes of irritation.

“I used to have a coat that looked like this,” he said, inspecting the brightly colored cherry, lime and pineapple chunks that garnished his drink. He traced circular patterns in the condensation clinging to his glass for a moment, and then looked around to study the décor. Miniature black plastic Easter Island statues, complete with red fez-shaped hats, sat atop each table.

“Well at least they got that part right,” he said, picking one up and tapping the hat on its head. He turned the statue over in his hands. “The chin’s wrong, though.”

“I dunno, I think it looks just like you,” she said. He frowned at her, attack eyebrows at the ready. She added hastily, “The old you, I mean.”

“I know what you mean. But you’re still wrong. The chins on these are too square.”

“If you say so,” she smirked at him.

Clara pulled the little pink paper umbrella from her drink and opened and closed it a few times, just for fun. The radioactive rum-and-juice drink tasted good – a little too good. She felt a bit giddy, but tried to keep her wits about her. She was on a mission, after all: Operation ‘figure out what the Doctor is really thinking today’. _Mission Impossible_ , she thought ruefully to herself, and couldn’t hide the tiny grimace that crossed her lips.

The Doctor wasn't giving her any hints as to what was wrong, so it was time for distraction tactics. She tucked the umbrella behind her left ear and smoothed her hair down.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, playfully modeling the umbrella.

The Doctor watched her for a moment, raised an eyebrow and smiled, but soon looked down to examine the statue again. The instant before he looked away, Clara caught the briefest glimpse of the expression that flashed across his face before he’d carefully masked it again. It was an expression she’d seen on men’s faces before - and it was unmistakable. The dilated pupils, the half-hooded lids, and the way his nostrils flared slightly….

 _But…that_ _couldn’t be_ , Clara told herself. Surely her imagination was misleading her. The drink was going to her head and making her see things that weren’t there.

She was imagining it, wasn’t she? She had to know.

Emboldened by the drink and their bizarre surroundings, Clara decided to try an experiment. She blew the hair out of her eyes, fanned herself, and stroked her neck while leaning her head slightly to one side.

“Whew! I think this drink is making me feel a bit warm,” she admitted, her voice breathy.

“Well, it would do, because of the radiation.…” The Doctor’s voice caught in his throat and trailed off suddenly. Clara had reached up to pull at the collar of her shirt and casually unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse, after which she slid her hand down the length of her tie. His eyes were riveted on the movements of her hands, his pupils wide and his expression frozen on his face. He swallowed once, then sheepishly looked out the window as if the view outside were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He ran his fingers through his hair, tousling it, before smoothing down the front of his shirt with his hand.

 _Gotcha_. Clara smiled, triumphant. But then the full weight of what she’d witnessed struck her. _Oh god_. _He wanted her_. Her entire world changed in that moment, cracking and shifting like the quivering surface of the moon over which they floated.

By sheer coincidence, at that instant a deafening crash thundered up from below as a massive quake shattered the landscape.

“That was a big one,” said the Doctor. “That moon will never be the same again.”

“You’re telling me,” she muttered under her breath.

Clara’s mind raced. Did she dare trust the evidence of her eyes? She wanted to believe so badly. She fancied him, certainly, and she knew he cared for her deeply. In the past, every now and then she’d caught him looking at her, but never this much or this intensely before. And he’d never acted on it.

And yet…there was too much at stake for her to jump to conclusions. She had to be absolutely certain.

The Doctor had slipped into a reverie again, and was staring out the window, absently stroking his bottom lip with his index and middle fingers. Still fixated on the view below, he asked, “If the eyes are the windows of the soul, does that mean that windows are the eyes of the soul?” He glanced at her, genuinely puzzled by his own question. “What would Leonardo say to that, do you suppose?”

She giggled. “I think he’d say that drink has had more of an effect on you than you’re willing to admit.”

“Hah,” he snorted. “Yeah. Probably. He always was a cheeky one.”

They sipped their cocktails in companionable silence. Clara studied the Doctor’s handsome profile as he gazed out the window and watched the quaking ground below. His thick mane of silver hair, fluffy on top and swept back on the sides, glinted in the sunlight, and she imagined what it would be like to run her fingers through his curls.

She finished her drink, plucked the candied cherry out of the bottom of the glass, and popped it into her mouth.

“Do you want that?” she asked, chewing a mouthful of cherry and pointing to the fruit in the Doctor’s tumbler, which was still half full.

“It’s yours, my dear. Can’t stand those red things.” As he passed the drink to her, she brushed his fingers with her own, lingering just a second too long. The contact sent little shocks through his hand and he had to steady himself so as not to drop the glass.

She speared the cherry with the point of his yellow paper umbrella, and lifted it to her lips. She sucked at the drops of drink that clung to the fruit before placing it on her tongue and finally, eating it. The Doctor was openly staring at her now, unable to take his eyes off her mouth.

He coughed and looked down at the screen embedded in their table, showing the final bill. “I guess we’d better get going. They charge by the minute here for the view, not just the drinks,” he said, fumbling in his pockets.

“Cheapskate,” she teased him.

“I’m buying, remember?” He started to pull things from his pockets, and soon had a motley assortment of odds and ends piled on the table. Out came the sonic, a wind-up toy mouse, a single orange jelly baby, a double-headed Martian coin, a spoon, a medallion engraved with the Great Seal of Rassilon, a banana, and finally something useful -- a silver credit rod. He picked up the rod and slid it into the slot on the table. He tapped at the screen and paid the bill.

Clara tried a final experiment. She took the paper umbrella from behind her ear, stretched her arms high overhead, arched her back, and shook her head from side to side so that her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders. Her blouse gaped open, revealing a glimpse of her breasts nestled in her white silk bra.

“Mmm…that’s better,” she purred, her eyes half-closed but still watching the Doctor enough to see that he was carefully contemplating her chest. It was just for a few seconds though, before he blushed and became intensely focused on scooping up his things and tucking them back into his bigger-on-the-inside pockets.

 _OK then_. He clearly wanted her, but was obviously reluctant to admit it. Her mind reeled as she tried to think this through. _That’s a thing. That happened_. _That actually, properly happened_. Clara’s heart beat faster and her breath quickened.

 _Now_ , she wondered, _what to do about it_?

 

************

 

The Doctor picked up the last item on the table -- the wind-up mouse -- and crammed it into his pocket. He knew he was in trouble. Serious trouble.

He’d miscalculated. Despite his earlier statements to the contrary, the Nuclear Mai Tai had, in fact, affected him more than he’d expected it to. In hindsight it was probably the ‘secret ingredient’ that prevented his body from quickly clearing the drink from his system. He wasn’t intoxicated, exactly, just a little less veiled. As a result, he was having a harder time than usual hiding his true feelings from Clara.

Especially when she had done _that_. That thing with the cherry. And the tie. And the reaching up thing. And the way she had _looked_ at him like she knew exactly what she was doing.

With his heightened Time Lord senses he had smelled the slight shift in her pheromones right before she’d stretched like contented cat. He’d heard the increase in her heart rate, and noted the shallower cadence of her breathing. He’d watched her pupils dilate, her lips part and swell slightly, and the fine capillaries on her cheeks flush. The Doctor had seen this collection of indicators on human faces before, and they were unmistakable. She was, unquestionably, aroused.

That’s when he realized, mortified, that she must have seen him. She’d caught him in the act of ogling her and she was teasing him about it -- and worse, she was physically _responding_ to him. She _wanted_ him. His own desire flared at the thought. Heat flooded the center of his chest and spread through his body, but he stamped it down, hard. _It’s just the drink. This isn’t real._

It wasn’t real, was it? But…what if it was real? What if she felt exactly the same way he did?

 _Oh my Rassilon_. This wasn’t part of the plan. _Oh no, no, no, no._ This wasn’t supposed to happen. What was supposed to happen was that Clara would leave him and have a beautiful human life and be happy, while he would go his lonely, miserable way as usual. Him wanting her, and her feeling the same way, at the same time…oh, that can’t be good.

Another deafening crack rumbled up from the moon below as the aftershocks of the last big quake reverberated across the surface.

 _What do you mean that can’t be good? Are you kidding? This is extremely very not good. Not good at all, Doctor,_ he thought to himself, completely flustered. If she came too close to him in that aroused state, with him in the same condition, he wasn’t sure he could stop what might happen next. The thought of the heartbreaking fallout that would inevitably occur as a result nearly drove him to panic. He had to keep some distance between them until the drinks cleared their systems.

As they stood up to leave, Clara sashayed around the table and grabbed the Doctor’s arm, intending to walk out with him that way. Her touch burned him in more ways than one, and he froze, uncertain what to do. He didn’t want to offend her but he just couldn’t let her touch him, not right now.

Thinking fast, he made up an excuse that would allow him to extricate his arm and leave her dignity intact. “Um, I think I left something on the table. You go back to the TARDIS, I’ll just be a second,” he said.

She smiled up at him, but didn’t let go easily. Instead she slowly caressed his arm all the way down, squeezed his hand, and stroked his palm with her thumb before sliding her fingertips off his. Every second felt like fire and his skin still tingled even after she’d let go.

“See you in a minute, then,” she said, her voice soft and low. She gave him a lingering, seductive glance and turned to leave.

 _It’s just the drink_ , he mumbled to himself. _Please let it be just the drink_.

 

************

 

Back in the TARDIS, the Doctor busied himself with various buttons and switches, continually moving so that the console was always between him and Clara. She followed him around for a while, then gave up, huffed, folded her arms, and waited. She positioned herself right next to the drive lever, knowing that sooner or later he’d have to use it. 

When he finally reached for the lever and flipped it, she cornered him, put her hands on his shoulders, pressed his back to the console and gazed straight into his face with her big brown eyes. She was so close to him that he could smell the sweet blend of citrus and rum on her breath, her jasmine soap, _those_ pheromones and that indefinable scent that was _her …_ and it was more intoxicating than any drink could ever be. His hearts beat a little faster and his breath quickened.

“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Clara, I think the drink might have gone to your head....”

“Nope,” she said, raising the arm where he’d given her the injection. “Viro-stabilizer, remember? I’m as sober as you are, Doctor.” She looked straight at his lips, then into his eyes. She stood on her tiptoes and leaned forwards, her intent clear.

“Oh, @$%&*!” he cursed in Gallifreyan, suddenly spinning her around and backing away before Clara could plant the kiss on his lips. The TARDIS swear-filter chose that moment to translate the rudest word in Gallifreyan as “sparkle crumpets!” which just made the entire situation that much more absurd. _Very funny_ , he thought. He rolled his eyes up at the time rotor and glared at his ship. He’d have to have a word with the Old Girl later about _that_.

Clara was so startled that she stopped her advance and broke into laughter. “Did you just say, ‘Oh, sparkle crumpets?’”

“TARDIS swear-filter,” he replied, abashed. “I don’t have any control over the translations. Give a time machine a conscience and the sass-meter goes off the scale.” _But thank you for distracting her,_ he thought, and sent a silent note of gratitude to the TARDIS.

“What, really?” she giggled again. “That’s hysterical. So, are you actually swearing like a sailor all the time and I just don’t hear it?”

“Humph.” He waggled his head. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“So if I say, something like ‘bloody hell, you can be such a prat sometimes’, what does that sound like to you?” she asked.

“It doesn’t work on humans,” he grumbled, looking at her like a hurt puppy.

“Oops,” she said, embarrassed but still smiling. Clara shook her head, incredulous. “I never knew. But why?”

“My ship, my rules. No swearing, no being sick, and no hanky panky.”

She cocked an eyebrow suggestively. “Well then,” she said, her voice sultry, “I guess you’ll just have to take me home.”

 

 _“Oh, sparkle crumpets,”_ he thought.


	3. Chapter 3

_Talk to her, idiot_. The voice inside his head was insistent. The Doctor looked down at his feet, interlaced his fingers together, and leaned against the nearest railing. He took a deep breath.

“Clara, we have to talk.”

“Oooh, sounds serious,” she teased. When he looked at her again his expression was anything but playful. “Oh. You _are_ being serious.” She walked over to him but stayed an arm’s length away. “What about?”

“This.” He squirmed a little, uncomfortable, and bit his right thumb.

“Not following you. This what?”

“This.” He waved his hands around. “This…thing.”

“Nope. Still not getting it.” She was not making this easy for him.

“This.” He pointed back and forth between them. “Us. This thing we both know is happening but are pretending isn’t happening.”

“Oh. That.” She waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, she asked, “Well, what do we do now?”

He hugged his arms tightly to his chest and looked her straight in the eye, his face etched with sadness. “Nothing. We do nothing.”

“But why?” She took another step towards him, but he held up a hand to stop her, and grimaced.

_Don’t make me do this_ , he pleaded with himself. But he gritted his teeth and continued, “Because this can’t be, and we both know it. You deserve a normal life, Clara. A better life than I can ever give you. I just want you to be happy and that means that this,” he gestured towards her, “this can’t happen. It stops. Now.”

Clara’s eyes went wide, her mouth opened and closed once, and her eyebrows turned downward in a deep scowl. She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head.

“No,” she reproached him; “You are not doing this to me again.” She began pacing back in forth in front of him, clenching her jaw and seething, her anger intensifying as she moved. She stopped and stared him in the eyes, her voice shaking. “How dare you. How dare you presume to dictate what kind of life I deserve.”

The Doctor wasn’t sure what reaction he had expected from Clara, but this wasn’t it.

“Clara, I…I just want what’s best for you.” The excuse sounded feeble, even to him.

“Don’t interrupt me!” she barked. He clamped his mouth shut. “For your information and in case you hadn’t noticed, which you obviously haven’t, I’ve never wanted a so-called normal life. I have never wanted what I’m ‘supposed’ to want, or what everyone else tells me is proper and normal and all that other rubbish. You,” she jabbed her finger at him, “have no right to tell me what I deserve, or what will or will not make me happy, or what is ‘best’ for me. I do that,” she pointed at herself, “Me. Not you. Understand?”

He nodded, stunned into silence.

“And this,” she gestured at the TARDIS around them, “ _This_ is what I want. And _you, Doctor,_ are the only man I want.”

The blood drained from his face. “But I’m not a man. I’m a Time Lord, Clara,” he punctuated his words with his hands, imploring her to understand. “And you know what that means.”

“I’ve had it with your excuses!” Her hand slashed through the air like a knife. “I don’t care. I don’t give a damn what you are or what form you take. I’ve seen your face change a dozen times and whatever you are in there,” she waved a hand up and down at him, “ _that_ is who I want.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Oh don’t look so surprised,” she continued. “Because you know what? You know what else I’ve gotten really, really good at besides lying?”

He shook his head no.

“Not falling in love, that’s what. But you know something? I’m sick of it. I’ve grown so very, very tired of that trick. And I. Am. Done.”

“Don’t say it, Clara, please. Just don’t…” the Doctor interrupted, his face stricken.

“Shut up! Just listen. I’ll bloody well say whatever I want.” She closed the distance between them and stared straight up into his eyes. “I. Love. You.” He didn’t reply. “And I _want_ you. _All_ of you.” There was no going back now. “There. I said it. And if you weren’t such a stubborn, arrogant idiot you’d say it back. I’ve seen the way you look at me. I’m not blind.”

The Doctor stared at her in silence. The only sound was the TARDIS materializing in Clara’s flat with a thud of finality.

“Well?” she challenged him. Still no answer.

“Typical.” She sighed. “Just typical. You are so egotistical and self-absorbed that you can’t accept what is right under your bloody Time Lord nose.” She looked towards the TARDIS doors, then back at the Doctor. “If that’s how you’re going to be, then I’ll just go.” She turned to leave. 

“Clara,” he called to her, his voice rough and strained. When she turned back to look at him, she saw that his eyes were moist. She stopped, immobilized on the spot. “Of course I love you,” he said, and added, barely above a whisper, “and, yes --  I do want you, too.” Her heart leapt for an instant. “But this can’t be," he went on. "It just can’t.” His face crumpled with regret, and he hung his head, unable to look at her. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Clara spoke, her voice calm and resolute.

“No.” she said simply. The Doctor raised his head.

“No?” he asked, confused. “No what?”

“I said no.” She stepped towards him, and clasped his hands in her own. “I’m not leaving. Not this time. Not ever.” She reached a hand to his face and caressed his cheek. He stared at her, a mixture of disbelief, pain, and love in his eyes.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted.

“I know. So am I.” Her lower lip quivered, and her eyes shone. “But you know what? A very wise man once told me that fear is a superpower.”

He shook his head. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever loved, Clara,” he exhaled deeply, “sometimes more than once. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” His shoulders slumped, and a look of utter despair settled on his face. “I am _so tired_ …tired of watching everything turn to dust. I don’t know what will happen to me if --” he swallowed,  “ _when_ –- I lose you…my impossible girl. I think it will shatter me for good.”

Clara’s eyes brimmed with tears, and her voice trembled. “But I’m right here. Now. Standing in front of you.” She stroked his cheek with her thumb. “And I love you, and I will always trust you. And no matter what happens to us, or when, I’ll always be your impossible girl, forever. Our timelines….”

She never got to finish that sentence, because the Doctor had closed her mouth with a tender kiss. To him, it felt like an electric shock, but he didn’t care. Clara reached her arms around his neck and gently kissed him back. He pulled away and looked into her eyes, searching.

“Is this really what you want, Clara? Are you sure?” Absolutely sure?

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

She reached up to kiss him again, and he could taste the salt tears that lingered on her lips. The tip of her tongue slid across his mouth and he opened to her willingly, his own tongue caressing hers.

He lifted his hands up to cup her cheeks with his palms as he kissed her, more passionately now, allowing himself to enjoy the heat of her body and the burning sensation that sizzled through his lips and fingertips. When the Doctor grazed his teeth gently over Clara’s lower lip, she let out a little moan and pressed her body against his.

He responded with a low growl in the back of his throat and slid one hand into her hair while he placed the other on her lower back in the curve of her spine. He glided his hand through the strands of her hair, letting them tickle the sensitive skin where his fingers joined his palms. Her hair wasn’t as soft as he remembered; it was softer, and it was glorious.

Clara reciprocated by stroking her hands up the back of his neck. She buried her fingers in his hair, ruffling those magnificent, silver curls. She kissed him deeply and scratched his scalp with her nails.

Suddenly, the Doctor stopped stroking her hair, pulled away from the kiss, and backed away from her. He raised his right hand. With a snap of his fingers, the TARDIS doors opened, revealing Clara’s bedroom.

“Doctor, what’re you doing?” Clara asked, suddenly worried, her forehead furrowed. Had he changed his mind? Was he going to send her away after all?

He looked into her eyes and cocked his left eyebrow, his smoldering gaze shameless and loving and joyful all at once, all traces of sadness gone. “No hanky panky in the TARDIS, remember? Rules are rules. Never said anything about hanky panky anywhere else, though.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note: If smut isn’t your thing, you can happily stop here. If it is, read on.


	4. Chapter 4

Clara blushed to her toes as a frisson of excitement shot through her, and heat pooled between her thighs.

"You're not drunk, are you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

He quickly scanned his body for any signs of residual alcohol or radiation, and finding none, said, "No. I'm not drunk." He smiled at her then added, "Well at least not on alcohol," and she flashed a radiant smile back at him. He beckoned her towards the open doors with a look of pure lust in his shining storm-blue eyes. Her knees nearly gave way then, and she walked a little unsteadily as the Doctor ushered them out of the TARDIS and into Clara’s bedroom. She still couldn’t quite believe this was happening, even though she was thrilled that it was.

They stood in the space between the dresser and the bed, and turned to face each other again. 

Trembling with anticipation, she reached up to put her arms around his neck. Before she could complete the movement, however, he grasped her forearms to stop her. Puzzled, she looked at him, questioning and curious.

“Not like that,” he said gently, and lowered her arms. He reached for her tie with both hands and slipped it over her head, tossing it aside, then shucked off his jacket. While she watched, he unbuttoned the cuffs and front of his shirt, her eyes following his graceful fingers as he undid each one, slowly revealing himself to her. She reached for him then, caressing his chest and running her fingers through the coarse gray hairs there. His back stiffened as the touch of her hands seared his skin, but he did not pull away, instead allowing her to slip the shirt off his shoulders and slide it to the floor. His bare chest and arms were slender and wiry, and she saw the muscles and tendons of his neck and jaw flex underneath the skin, rigid with tension.

“Like this,” he said, as he placed his hands on Clara’s waist and turned her body to face the triple mirrors on her dresser. He stood behind her, making eye contact with her in their shared reflection.

He spoke directly into her ear, his breath tickling her skin and his velvet-gravel voice throaty and soft. “I asked you earlier whether you thought we could see into our own souls when we look into mirrors,” he said. “I wasn't just being rhetorical. Let’s find out.”

Clara blushed again, and this time, now facing the mirror, she could see her own cheeks turn crimson. Her pupils were blown wide, turning her dark brown eyes nearly black, while the Doctor’s eyes were hooded and dark, his expression predatory and ravenous. The full length of his body was pressed firmly against her back, and she could feel his arousal through her clothes, rock-hard and insistent against her backside.

Overwhelmed by the mixture of the Doctor’s physical contact, the intensity of his heated gaze, and her own obvious carnal reactions in the mirror, Clara closed her eyes and leaned back against his chest. She could hear his quickened double heartbeat and his scent filled her nostrils. The mixture of sweat, citrus, and the sharp tang of Artron-energy that clung to his skin reminded her of the thick, heavy, air of a tropical grove in the moments before a hurricane was about to ravage the land. 

“Open your eyes,” he instructed gently but firmly. “Please.” He explained, “I want you to see what I see when I look at you,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “When I touch you, I need you to see…the truth of it.”

She hesitated for a moment then did as she was asked. The Clara in the mirror swallowed, licked her swollen red lips, and nodded a silent assent, intrigued.

“Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror,” he recited, his rich Scottish burr rolling over each word, "But you are eternity and you are the mirror."

She smiled. _“_ Khalil Gibran. Another friend of yours?”  _You really know how to seduce an English teacher, don’t you?_

“Naturally,” he murmured, his breath warming her ear as he peppered it with small kisses. With his right hand he moved her hair away from her shoulders, sliding his fingers through her dark tresses and caressing the back of her neck with his knuckles as he did so. Her lips parted slightly and her breath hitched as he pressed the firm tip of his tongue against the soft spot behind her ear along her hairline. She watched him kiss and lick his way down her neck at the same time she felt him do it. The feeling and seeing at the same time doubled the intensity of each kiss and every lingering brush of his lips, and each touch burned as though a spark of ash had landed on her skin.  When he sucked at the tender place where her neck and shoulder joined, she hummed. Quickly, he gave her a sharp nip with his front teeth in the same spot, enough to leave a light pink mark, then laved the spot with his tongue. She let out an involuntary moan.

“Mhmm, nice,” he mumbled, his words muffled by her skin. He vowed to remember everything she liked so he could do it again later. _Later. There would be a later with her._ His hearts soared above his inner darkness at the thought; it was the first moment he’d felt genuinely happy in a very long time.

His left hand was still on her waist. She reached down and took it in her own, and slid it under her blouse until his palm covered her breast. He slipped his hand under her bra and massaged her, pinching the nipple lightly between two fingers and watching her hiss and squirm with pleasure in the mirror.

Clara reached up with both hands and unhooked her bra, then moved to undo the pearl buttons of her blouse. She unbuttoned them one by one, and as she did so he traced the fingertips of his right hand down her chest, following the gradually lengthening line of exposed rosy skin. Together they tugged her shirt and bra off and dropped them to the floor. 

He marveled at her reflection for a long moment before he spoke again. “Beautiful. Utterly beautiful,” he said softly. He placed his hands on her stomach and caressed the velvety skin there, lightly dipping his finger into her belly button and trailing his hands around to her back, to the waistband of her skirt. He slid the zipper down, and moved his hands to the sides of her waist. He slipped his palms under her clothing and pushed the lot (skirt, tights, knickers) off her hips. She helped him slide everything down her legs and wriggled out of her clothes. As she bent to undo her boots, her bare bum brushed against the front of his trousers and he inhaled sharply.

 _She’s going to kill me_ , he thought. _I am going to regenerate, right here and now._

Clara glanced into the mirror and saw his dazed expression. She smirked. “Like what you see, do you?”

He had the grace to blush, then reached out to rub the smooth skin of her back. The tiny hairs on her skin stood up under his touch and a flush spread across her upper back and chest. She stood up and turned around to face him, reaching for his silver belt buckle. He lightly held her shoulders with his hands, leaving himself unguarded to her. She scratched at the zip of his trousers a few times with her nails, and he let out a noise almost like a snarl. She undid the belt and fastenings by touch, while looking him straight in the eyes. As she slid his trousers and pants down over his hips, his erection sprang free. She knelt down to unlace his boots, and when everything was undone, he kicked his clothes off to one side. He was left standing there staring down at her, wearing nothing but a pair of black and white polka dot socks.

Clara was reminded of that time at Christmas when she’d seen him—the other him—stark naked, just before they’d gone to church. This body was definitely different: long and lean, more elegant, and taut, but she liked it. A lot.

Kneeling before him, she slid her hand over his swollen cock and squeezed it firmly. The touch of her warm palm scalded him, and a moan escaped his lips as he pushed into her hand. She leaned forwards and placed her mouth over the tip, licking the end and tasting the slight bitterness there; the scorch of her lips against him sent another growl rumbling out of his throat. She sucked lightly and traced the ridge underneath with her tongue as she glided her hand up and down the shaft. He groaned and bucked violently then, digging his fingertips into her shoulders to brace himself. She glanced to the left and could just barely see the two of them in one of the side mirrors. He was looking down at her, avidly watching her suck him off. _God that’s kinky_ , she thought. _But sexy_. She pulled him deeper into her mouth and reached up with her other hand to gently squeeze his balls. He moaned louder and grabbed her hair. She swirled her tongue around the shaft and sucked hard, her mouth a flurry of lips and tongue and teeth, then let out a little hum and looked up at him, straight into his stormcloud eyes.

He nearly lost control then, when she made eye contact. “Stop!” He shouted, breathlessly. “Too much. Need…need to make this last.”

She obeyed, and slid him out of her mouth, lightly kissing the tip before standing to face him. He leaned down and kissed her deeply, licking her lips and sucking her tongue into his mouth. She realized he was tasting himself, and the thought made wetness flood her core. She moaned and grabbed his ass, forcing herself against him and grinding her hips against his.

He nearly slipped inside her then and cried out, but again he stopped her and pulled back. "I need you to _see_ , Clara, it's important. Trust me." Reluctantly, she turned to face the mirror again, and he locked eyes with her reflection. She could feel the heat of his skin against her, and his velvety warm length nestling against the cleft of her buttocks.

He grabbed her left hip with one hand, and brushed his right hand over her lower belly, sliding his fingers downwards until they reached the curly hairs between her legs. Clara made a little purring noise, and she noticed his resulting smile in the mirror. She covered his hand with her own, guiding his thumb to massage her clit in small circles. “Yes,” she whispered, and spread her legs apart a little.

At this invitation, he reached further forward, and slipped two of his long fingers inside her. She was slick with moisture and she let out a sigh of pleasure as he slid his fingers in deeper. She reached her other hand up to massage her own breast. She watched their reflection as he pumped his fingers in and out, causing little mews to escape her lips with each thrust. He pressed his thumb harder against her swollen bud, and she ground against his hand as he quickened the pace. He curled his fingers and pressed against her walls, nearly sending her to the edge.

"Want _you,"_ she panted _, "Now_." He pulled his fingers from her and placed his hands on her belly, embracing her. She wriggled against him with frustration, but he held her still.

“What do you see, Clara? Tell me what you see,” he said, his voice rough and insistent. He wanted to lock this moment as a fixed point in time for both of them, and needed her to _see_ with every fiber of her being in order to make that happen.

She focused on his face in the mirror, then, her eyes riveted on his. Their pupils were dilated to black and both their expressions were a blazing mixture of desire and love and awe. His every breath, his every movement echoed hers exactly. Looking deeply into his eyes, which were gazing back at hers, was like seeing into a dazzling bright mirror reflected in another mirror. Clara couldn't tell where she ended and he began. She no longer saw the room, nor him, nor herself, nor anything but endless mirrors, endless reflected love and blinding white light, expanding to infinity. Suddenly, she heard a deafening roar in her ears and lost all sense of herself, dissolving into the light and becoming one with it. Her heart exploded with joy, and an oceanic sense of bliss flooded through her being. It was like looking into the face of divinity itself. Gradually, a deep feeling peace settled over her. 

"What do you see, Clara?"

His words drew her back into herself, back into the room, back into his arms. “I see..." breathless and dumbstruck, she fumbled for words, but words were completely inadequate. Finally, she whispered, "I see wonders.”

“Good,” he said, closing his eyes with a sigh. “Now put make it a part of you. Remember every detail of this moment. _Remember_.” 

She closed her eyes and held the luminous image in her thoughts. She focused on every sensation in her mind, body and soul, fixing them in their shared timelines forever.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Oh, yes. Thank you.” A deep awareness of warmth and profound relief spread through him as he felt their future timelines fuse, and joy flooded every molecule of his being.

They both opened their eyes and Clara whimpered, her core throbbing and unfulfilled. The hug was nice – really nice – but she needed more, and she needed it now.

 _"Need you. Now,"_ she said, and bent forwards to brace herself against the dresser with her hands, spreading her legs apart. She cocked an eyebrow and smirked seductively at the Doctor’s reflection, daring him to take her, and waited.

 _Is that how you want to play, Clara_? He laughed out loud at her challenge. Suddenly all that mattered was wiping that cheeky smirk off her face. He found it very satisfying indeed when the smirk in the mirror was instantly replaced by a loud, guttural groan as he grabbed her hips and sheathed himself deep inside her in one quick motion.

He gave her a moment to adjust to the sensation of fullness, then thrust into her forcefully. She pushed back just as hard, needy and wanting and desperate for release. With one hand on her hip and the other rubbing her clit he pulled her to him, over and over, with increasing speed. Sweat beaded on their foreheads and their breathing came out in grunts and moans as they rocked against each other with uninhibited abandon. Clara’s walls gradually constricted around him, and her body became a tightly wound spring as he drove deeper inside her with each thrust.

Barely able to maintain control, the Doctor growled and bent over her back, then sunk his teeth into her shoulder, leaving a bright red mark. The mixture of pleasure and pain sent her over the edge; she threw her head back and screamed her release to the sky. Her walls clenched around his cock in hard, rhythmic bursts, her toes flexing and body shuddering as she came harder than she ever had before in her life. Her head swam and everything went black for a moment as she nearly fainted from the thundering orgasm.

As soon as she let go the Doctor rose to meet her, his teeth clenched tight and eyes wide open, still fixed on her reflection. The sound that came out of his throat as he spilled into her was a feral, open-mouthed roar. His own pulsing climax lasted several moments longer, his breath coming in short gasps as he gradually slowed his thrusts. He leaned over her, the two of them breathing heavily as the aftershocks rippled through their bodies. Her legs gave way then and she nearly collapsed onto the dresser, but he caught her. Spent, he pulled out of her, then sucked at the nape of her neck, and left a trail of wet kisses down her spine as he shakily stood up.

She mustered enough control to stand up, then spun around and put her hands on the Doctor’s chest. She pushed him backwards until his knees hit the edge of her bed and he fell back onto her pillows. He scooted over, making room for her, and they curled around each other. She pulled a duvet over them and they lay there in each other’s arms, gradually recovering their breath and melting into the soft bed. He caressed her hair and she laid her palm over his hearts, feeling his double pulse slow to normal and his breathing calm.

After a few moments, Clara propped herself up on her elbow and looked into the Doctor’s eyes. “That was…” she began to say “amazing”, but he put a finger to her lips.

“Shush, love,” he said gently, “yes.” There wasn’t really a need for words now; talk could come later.

But that had never stopped Clara before. She studied his face for a minute, noticing the color of his eyes, calmer and softer now, like the sky after a storm. A wild tangle of salt-and-pepper curls framed his head in a loose, magnificent mane. His skin glowed pink, with a thin sheen of sweat, and his soft lips curved into a gentle, satisfied smile. 

“Do you know what I see now, Doctor?”

“What.”

“One thoroughly shagged Time Lord.”

He was too relaxed to even pretend to grimace at her, so he simply grinned instead. She laughed.

“You never did tell me,” she continued, “What did you see in the mirror?”

He gazed at her for a long while before answering, searching for the right words. Finally, he said quietly,  “I saw the sun rise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> If you're up for a bit of fun, I've hidden an "Easter egg" reference to each of all thirteen Doctors (including War) in the story. The references to One and Two are indirect, but the rest are pretty straightforward. I'd love to know if you find them all. (I'll put an "answer key" in the comments).

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title inspired by the song Marrakesh Night Market (The Mask and the Mirror), by Loreena McKennitt.


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